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Saturday, September 14, 2013

First Page - North Dark by Lane Kareska

Set in a lonesome and barbarous failed state, North Dark is
the story of a lone man traveling by dogsled across a frozen wasteland in
pursuit of the fugitive who destroyed his family.

Haunted by predators both physical and spectral, the
musher’s journey takes him across a deadened tundra, tortured cities and the
remains of civilizations long-lapsed into madness. All the while, his enemy
slides in and out of striking distance, always one step ahead, always one act
of violence away.

North Dark

Laye Kareska

One

Treesplitter sees that his sons neither hear nor understand him, so he
waves his whipping torch and they all spread out to search the ice caves. His
sons are capable, not useless. His gloved hand clenches the stalk of the torch
as he enters the ribbed blue socket of a nameless tunnel he played in many
times as a child and teenager. The windhowl shuts off as he passes into the low
slung shaft. The light of his torch flaps on the icerimed ceiling and walls.
Once he is far enough within to no longer feel the sharp scrape of wind on his
face, he throws back his foxfur hood, searches the ground for footprints in the
frost, and sees none. That does not mean he is in no danger. That does not mean
the fugitive is not just ahead of him, hiding in the dark, blade drawn.
Treesplitter grips his sharpest knife and advances quietly.

He has been through this before. Men, desperate men, come through his
village several times a year. Some criminals, others victims, but the hard and
fast local law is to turn all away. There is no room. No space for unknowns.
Once, years ago, on a similar adventure, he had been forced to kill two men in
a cave like this. He never did learn from what they were running, but they had
carried short, nicked knives and wild looks in their eyes and that was enough.

The grim weight of resolve settles over him. There is a good chance he will
murder soon.

Murder. Best not to call it that. Protection. Protection of his family,
those he loves, those he fathers, the woman he husbands. He touches the ice
wall with his fingers. This is the spot where he first made love to Prairie
thirty years ago. Neither of them has been with another since.

He looks down at the icy ground and gives a small laugh for the young and
hotheaded boy he once was. It is unthinkable how much time has changed him.
Tamed him even.

He moves down the tunnel until he reaches the first hard bend. He bites his
knife and transfers the torch to his left hand. He reaches for the leather sack
looped through his belt, sets it on the ground, opens the mouth and lets loose
the three gray ridge mice within. The rasping animals, each as long as river
trout, circle him. He waves them forward with his torch and they run into the
darkness of the tunnel ahead. He stands there listening for long seconds. He
scrapes the flat of his knife against his beard. Fugitives. Ruffians. He has
better things to do, village work to complete, tasks to administer, supper to
eat. The temperature drops a few degrees and he reminds himself that he had
better keep his mind on the job at hand. Tougher men than he have been lost to
simple scoundrels before.

The high whine of the ridge mice ahead. A long, panicked squeal. One of the
cries cuts off and, a moment later, two of the mice race past his feet, darting
away. He holds the torch forward, illuminating another few yards of blue cave
and the twisted, enraged face of the snowbear lumbering toward him on enormous
paws. The creature’s small eyes flash and its fur glows blue in the strange
halflight of the tunnel.

Treesplitter’s eyes widen in alarm and he throws the
torch at the beast. The bear ignores the fire bouncing from his chest and
charges the man before him. Treesplitter lowers himself, crouches ...